


The Lap of the Gods

by onward_came_the_meteors



Series: Brucemas 2020 [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, POV Third Person, Team Dynamics, Thor obliges the previous statement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onward_came_the_meteors/pseuds/onward_came_the_meteors
Summary: After the Avengers are hit by a unique kind of attack, S.H.I.E.L.D. is forced to split them up in order to avoid outright disaster.Bruce isn't sure that being in a room with Thor will do much to prevent outright disaster.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Thor
Series: Brucemas 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056074
Comments: 16
Kudos: 132
Collections: Brucemas 2020





	The Lap of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3, for the Thor/Bruce pairing and the prompt "hugs"

Bruce hadn’t gotten drunk in eight years. 

It was yet another side effect of having your body blasted with lethal amounts of gamma radiation—way, way down on the list underneath  _ turning into a part-time rage monster with limited spatial awareness and highly inconvenient amnesia _ and  _ banned from most government buildings and probably one or two small countries  _ and  _ unable to hold on to the same pair of pants for longer than three months _ —and one that had proven to hold firm even through Tony’s relentless after-battle parties and whatever the  _ hell  _ brand of liver-destroyer was in Thor’s magical Asgardian flask.

(The word  _ mead _ tugged at his brain, but he wasn’t sure if it came from Thor himself or from watching that Viking documentary)

(Whatever it was, the Poison Control Center  _ hated _ it)

No, the Hulk effectively prevented Bruce from feeling the effects of most inhibition-altering substances. They simply burned through his system too fast to make much of a dent.

Of course, there were exceptions to every rule.

And this sensation… it was looking  _ very _ much like one of those exceptions.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had called it an “emotion-disregulating hormone enhancer,” but that was just a name to put on the mission report—just an overly complicated way of saying that all six members of the Avengers Initiative were absolutely, categorically, tripping balls.

So their last mission hadn’t gone  _ quite _ as planned. After New York, a popular image fed by grainy cell phone videos and persistent faith had arisen of the Avengers after a long battle: the weary victors, maintaining stoic expressions even as exhaustion slumped their shoulders, trooping to the nearest restaurant for a refueling and a dialing-down. Those were the clips the media loved to broadcast, anyway; funnily enough, they never showed Steve making a half-hearted attempt to wrangle them in a direction before giving up and letting his forehead drop against Thor’s shoulder with a sigh, Natasha and Clint getting into an elbowing contest after they both tried to sit in the same chair, Tony talking a mile a minute about anything and everything that came into his head, Bruce trying not to face-plant on the pavement, and Thor watching serenely while humming whatever new Earth pop song he’d heard on the radio. It would make for entertaining coverage, but Bruce didn’t think that was what most people were interested in.

No, this mission hadn’t ended anything like that—either the media-saturated version or the more likely scenario. Because this time, their villain-of-the-day hadn’t been armed with just the ordinary city-destroying blasters and poison-dart guns and bombs that shot bigger bombs (not to be confused with bombs that shot smaller bombs; those might have been more subtle, but also didn’t have a blast radius equal to half of Central Park). Oh no. Bruce didn’t know whether they’d been facing a disgraced pharmacology and psychology double major or what, but their evil plan had apparently been to “tear the Avengers apart… from the inside…” to a literal extent. As if nobody had ever thought of that before. 

Steve had clocked the bad guy in the head with the shield, but not before the plug in a large barrel of what looked like colorful smoke had been pulled. Naturally, they’d all gotten a face full of it—it had even filtered through the cracks in Tony’s helmet—and S.H.I.E.L.D. had found them half an hour later, struggling into consciousness from where they’d toppled to the cement and coming to the dawning realization that  _ hey, this doesn’t feel right. _

Emotion-disregulating  _ anything _ and Bruce Banner didn’t tend to mix well. 

Which was probably a significant part of the reason why he was currently sitting on the floor, legs drawn up to his chest (because standing up was just a hard no at the moment), in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s delightfully-named containment pods.

Honestly, something called the “containment pods” was such a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing to be in possession of, and might’ve come off as slightly creepy if Bruce hadn’t been used to this—and far worse—by now.

The last time he’d seen the rest of the team had been right before S.H.I.E.L.D. herded them all into said pods, when it had become clear that these emotion-enhancers lived up to their name. They’d been standing—those of them who could still stand—in the entry hall of the base, the cluster of agents who’d picked them up muttering anxiously in the corner and probably alerting several layers of security that the Avengers had finally lost it. 

And really… who could blame them?

Tony had been leaning almost all of his weight against Clint, silent giggles shaking his shoulders as he grasped for a handhold in empty air. Natasha had been fiddling around with the end of Clint’s quiver like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen in her life, sliding her finger along an arrow tip and sticking it in her mouth when it bled. As for Clint himself, there had been a deep scowl etching his face, probably caught in the decision of whether to punch Tony or Natasha first—although from the way he’d glared at Tony’s hand reaching up to anchor himself with the fabric of Clint’s shirt, that decision might not have been so hard. Steve had been standing still as a statue and crying his eyes out for seemingly no reason at all, and Thor had been quite literally glowing with energy as electricity crackled up and down his limbs. He’d seemed delighted whenever a spark appeared and zapped a teammate with static, but the length of time between those sparks was getting shorter and shorter, and thunder already rumbled in the distance. And Bruce… he didn’t even want to think about what he must have been doing. All his hazy memory would allow him were the conflicting sensations of seeing green veins raising along his hands and the momentarily-weightless feeling of someone picking him up off the ground.

In short, it was no wonder Fury had opted for the containment pods.

There were three of them: with two Avengers each. Fury had originally wanted to split them all up even further, but after the first few… er, mishaps… it had become fairly obvious that leaving any of them alone would be perhaps  _ worse _ for their rollercoastering emotional states than allowing the risk of another teammate’s company. They were all a danger to themselves and others at the moment (S.H.I.E.L.D.’s words, not theirs), and together in a group they were… well,  _ hazardous  _ was one word. Another was  _ millions of dollars in S.H.I.E.L.D. property damage _ . 

And so someone had undertaken the math required to split the team up in ways that wouldn’t lead to a smoldering crater where the base used to be. No combination would have been perfect, but there were a few that were just no-brainers to avoid: Natasha couldn’t be around Clint and Bruce couldn’t be around Tony and Thor couldn’t be around Steve and there was no way in  _ hell _ Steve and Tony could even be considered to be anywhere near each other until these drugs had fully worn off. 

Finally, S.H.I.E.L.D. had apparently hit upon the magic number and separated off Clint with Steve (banking on the assumption that neither of them would speak a word to each other), Tony with Natasha (banking on the assumption that if they did kill each other, they’d at least do it the quietest), and Bruce with Thor.

Yeah. Thor. 

He was in here too. 

Bruce lifted his head from where he’d been hunkered down in a ball and looked across the room at his thunder god teammate.

The two of them looked like whatever the antithesis of a mirror image was: both were sitting on the floor at opposite ends of the empty room, but where Bruce was curled in on himself as tightly as he could get, Thor was sprawled with his legs out straight and his hands playing with a loose buckle on his armor. His hair caught the fluorescent light coming from the ceiling, and a few odd sparks were still leaping between the exposed places of his skin. 

When he noticed Bruce watching him, Thor waved. 

Bruce waited a moment to make sure Thor wasn’t going to say anything before he spoke. “So—”

At the same time, Thor started with “It appears—”

Both of them stopped talking at once, their eyes flicking over each other. There was a pause that lasted for one beat… two… 

Bruce tried again. “What I—”

Thor spoke at the same moment. “That was—”

They stopped and stared at each other again. Bruce felt the corners of his mouth turn up, and a few more happy sparks darted along Thor’s wrist as he returned the smile. 

Bruce opened his mouth and watched Thor carefully before he plunged forward with, “Okay, you go.”

Thor gave a half shrug. “I only wanted to ask if you were doing alright.” He glanced around as though to indicate the four blank walls and the heavily reinforced door.

“Well, I haven’t turned into a giant rage monster yet,” Bruce said. “So there’s something.”

Thor nodded brightly. “There’s something!”

Bruce got the feeling that that wasn’t so much because Thor had missed the sarcasm (he rarely did that anymore, if he had ever—Bruce was getting better at picking up when Thor was just making fun of them), than because his teammate was genuinely trying to make him feel better. He was wearing the same eyes-wide, brows-drawn-slightly-together expression he wore whenever he offered a disoriented and shivering Bruce a blanket after a mission or stood protectively over him while he was midway through transforming or scooted out a chair when Bruce stumbled downstairs after a night of more science than sleep. 

And… oh, that was a warm little bubbly feeling rising up in his chest. Spreading in a flush of heat outward to his limbs and up into his—

_ Stop that. No feelings right now; feelings are BAD. _

_ And chemical-induced, anyway. _

_ Right. _

_ Yeah. _

He pulled his knees a little tighter into his chest. He was very aware of how the drugs could affect his already all-over-the-place emotional reactions and was trying his absolute best to stay  _ calm _ and  _ measured  _ and in  _ control _ , but god that was so hard when every cell in his body wanted to jump right out of him—

Apparently, Thor was still talking. “You know, we’re most likely going to be in here for a while.”

“I’m not doing icebreakers,” Bruce said reflexively. The memory of one of their recent missions—maybe a month and a half ago?—where he’d ended up trapped in a cave with a very bored Tony and Clint, still haunted him. 

Thor frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Never mind.”

* * *

“Um… I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up, but… you’ve got a little bit—”

“I know.”

“—of green—”

“I know.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Hulk gives me an advanced metabolic response; whatever was in these drugs should hopefully wear off soon.”

“You’re not answering the question, Banner.”

* * *

“Hey, Thor?”

“Yes?”

“While we’re in here, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“I’ve been wondering this for a while… what would happen if someone put your hammer in a catapult?”

* * *

“So your blood really is radioactive?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Well… mosquitoes.”

“...”

“You’re not answering; does that mean it’s been a problem before?”

“...”

“...”

“Thor, stop laughing. Thor.”

* * *

“—and one time, he transformed himself into a snake, and then he—”

“Let me guess, and then he stabbed you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any stories that don’t involve Loki stabbing you?”

“There are a few that I might classify more as a mild impaling.”

“Thor.”

“No, no, wait, I have one, okay? There was this one time, right? I was about eleven and Loki transformed himself into the rug on my bedroom floor so that when I walked over it—”

“He stabbed you?”

“No, Banner, let me finish.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“You’re being rude, you should let me finish my story.”

“I  _ said _ I was sorry, Thor.”

“So I walked over the Loki-rug, and when I did, he snatched himself out from under me so that I tripped and fell out the open window that was nearby—this was before I got Mjolnir, so I couldn’t fly—and my bedroom is near the top of the palace, so as you can imagine, there was quite a long way to fall.”

“I mean, that’s… interesting, but—”

“Wait, I’m not done! I’m not done. So I was tumbling through the air, as you do, watching the ground get closer and closer, and then the Loki-rug wrapped himself around my ankle and held me off the edge of the balcony. And so I was relieved, because that meant I wasn’t falling anymore. And by that point, I obviously knew it was Loki, so I said ‘Hi, Loki!’ and then he turned back into himself and he stabbed me.”

“...”

“And I am just now realizing that that story did not fulfill the requirements. Hmm.”

“I think… I think the more you talk about these stories, the more I understand New York.”

* * *

Somehow, the room seemed to have gotten smaller in the past three hours. It could’ve been claustrophobia, or a lingering effect of the drugs, or it could’ve been because Thor had shifted along the edge of the wall until he was sitting almost shoulder to shoulder with Bruce. He’d done it without calling attention to himself, as though it were perfectly natural to pick oneself up from the floor and scoot over next to a teammate. As though he hadn’t paid any mind to the shivers wracking Bruce’s form as he wrapped green-tinged arms around himself, and had simply moved over on a whim. 

The electricity running off Thor’s body was still a basking heat—that probably classified as some kind of hazard, but things like that had dropped way, way down on Bruce’s priority list; after being irradiated to the point where most medical experts would pronounce him dead, there wasn’t much left to worry about—and Bruce couldn’t have been more grateful for it as he struggled to keep a lid on his emotions. 

At the moment, Thor was still talking, gesturing vaguely in the air as though pointing out constellations, and Bruce tilted his head up to look at him. 

“—and, of course, none of the rest of you Avengers would. There are some things that only children don’t understand.” Thor smiled slightly after he’d finished, betraying his poker face.

“Clint isn’t an only child,” Bruce pointed out.

Thor frowned. “Clint’s an Avenger?”

His deadpan was perfect, and Bruce wasn’t sure he could blame the drugs anymore when he started laughing. Soon enough Thor’s face began to twitch, and then the both of them had lost it entirely, trying to breathe in between giggles, and then Bruce’s head dropped sideways onto Thor’s shoulder and Thor let it, still laughing.

It actually took a few seconds for the neurons to fire in Bruce’s brain, and then his eyes widened as he realized that he was practically leaning against Thor’s entire side, and the thunder god didn’t seem bothered by it at all. On the contrary, in fact, since he’d shifted himself around, straightening up some places and relaxing in others, presumably— _ presumably _ —to make it more comfortable for Bruce. 

Maybe those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had miscalculated when they’d decided putting him in a room with Thor would have the least effect on Bruce’s emotional state.

It was a very solid thing, this arm pressing against his own. It was a good thing that Thor had taken his armor off, otherwise Bruce would’ve gotten bashed in the shoulder, but it was also a bad thing that Thor had taken his armor off, because Bruce’s T-shirt (borrowed from Tony and adorned with a very bad periodic table pun) did absolutely nothing to prevent their bare skin from touching.

Bruce didn’t dare move for almost a solid minute, the laughter fading out of him as he waited for something to go wrong, something to break and ruin and vanish into thin air, and it was only the feeling of Thor’s pulsing sparks against his skin that reminded him to breathe. 

But it was okay.

It was  _ okay _ .

The world didn’t end, and Hulk didn’t come out, and this feeling, this feeling that was one hundred percent from Bruce’s own, uninhibited brain (as much as Bruce Banner’s brain could ever be considered uninhibited)—that was filling him up like a wave, that he was afraid to put a name to because what if he was wrong—could be felt, and was  _ allowed _ to be felt, without disaster and chaos and the end of everything, and it was that realization that sent relief flooding through his veins, pushing away even the grumbled whispers of the Hulk that had been threatening since S.H.I.E.L.D. had picked them up.

And then Bruce felt a soft weight settle on the top of his head, and he lifted his eyes to see that Thor, the laughter finally worn out of him, had leaned sideways so that his cheek brushed against Bruce’s hair and his arm came within inches of circling his back. There was no denying their closeness now—no denying that out of the entire starkly empty S.H.I.E.L.D. containment room, they had chosen to sit practically on top of each other.

But at the way Thor was smiling, Bruce forgot to worry about it.

* * *

“You know… you guys have it so easy.” Bruce wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but Thor’s body was still pressed against his own—maybe the electricity had fried his brain. Or possibly the proximity to Thor. “You can just show up to fights and... “ he gestured vaguely, his arm bumping into Thor’s side “... still process conscious thoughts? And then you get to wear clothes the whole time… it’s not fair, man.”

He shook his head, the movement limited by the amount of thunder god still draped over him. The exhaustion from the battle finally seemed to have caught up to both of them—like after the hours of fighting and shouting and explosions and dosing with unknown substances, their bodies had finally run out of the adrenaline that had been all but keeping them upright, keeping them aware just in case they were thrown back in. They were both clinging to this, this hint of safety that had widened to a space just big enough to hold. 

To hold  _ what _ , the instructions of the universe hadn’t been clear, but it seemed that Bruce and Thor had interpreted it in their own way.

Thor shifted, his arm slipping from where it anchored along the wall to a faint brush along the small of Bruce’s back. Bruce tried not to visibly shiver. “Oh, yes,” Thor began, his teasing tone evident from the first syllable. “I’m Bruce Banner, and I’m jealous of Thor because he gets to swing around a hammer while I smash things up.”

Bruce grinned, his head burying further into the space between Thor’s shoulder and his neck. “First of all, I never said I was jealous of you specifically.”

“It was implied.”

“How was it implied?”

“It just was.” Thor gave him that smirk, that smirk that made Bruce want to—

Well. That particular thought process could wait for later evaluation.

“Second of all,” Bruce continued. “If you’re insinuating that slamming a chunk of metal into stuff requires so much sophisticated thought—”

“It’s about the angles,” Thor interrupted.

“Right, talk to me when you’ve got seven Ph—”

“It’s about the angles and the manipulation of acceleration gravity and vector quantities,” Thor added.

Bruce blinked. He’d had a train of thought, had words that he had planned to say, but now Thor was looking at him, and his eyes were  _ very _ blue and had anyone ever noticed that before? 

He’d thought the drugs had been wearing off—mind getting clearer, vision less distorted at the edges like a blurry photograph, vowels no longer sticking in his throat like residue—but evidently he had been wrong, because surely nothing else could be affecting his mental capacity in such a way. 

He fumbled around, trying to remember how to string together sentences, and eventually came up with: “And—uh—also, third of all, that’s not even what I sound like.”

Thor grinned. “All right. Let me try again.” He cleared his throat, and the next words out of his mouth were in the worst American accent Bruce had ever heard in his life. “Hello, my name is Bruce Banner, and I am a scientist of… things.” He frowned. “Bannerrr. Er.”

Bruce fell over laughing. 

Thor pretended to look offended at first, saying things like “I thought that was very good, actually,” but upon seeing that Bruce had tears in his eyes and couldn’t even form a response, he switched tactics. “I’d like to see you do better.”

Bruce shook his head, still gasping for breath. “Nah, I’m no good at British accents.”

“I’m not British, I’m Asgardian.”

“I’m  _ noht _ British, I’m  _ Asgahdian _ .”

Bruce dissolved into another round of laughter, and Thor only pretended to glare at him for a few moments before joining in.

Eventually, their laughter faded away, and the two of them seemed to sigh as one, chests relaxing and shoulders slumping down to form pillows for the other’s head, as though they had been tailor-made to fit together. Bruce could feel Thor’s slow breath ruffling his hair as he let his eyes fall shut, the blank whiteness of the opposite wall shifting to warm black. He really was tired—both of them had to be; the battle had been long and their amount of sleep short—and wondered vaguely what Thor would do if he fell asleep against his shoulder like this.  _ This _ being while hugging—there was really no other word for it, and while Bruce had fallen asleep amongst teammates before (never intentionally, but sometimes battles were hard and Stark-Industries-designed seat cushions were soft), it was overwhelmingly different when it was Thor. 

Then again, if Thor maintained his current position resting his head sideways atop Bruce’s, Bruce might not need to worry about being the first one to fall asleep.

He lifted his head, straining to see whether Thor’s eyes had closed yet and whether he would soon be supporting the full weight of a Norse god, but the movement wasn’t as careful as he’d meant it to be, and Thor made an incoherent mumbling sound in the back of his throat before stretching and leaning back to look at Bruce.

“S’ something wrong?”

Thor had that expression again, even blinking himself out of sleep and with half of his hair parted oddly from where the battle had tossed him around; that expression that Bruce still didn’t know the meaning of, but suddenly had the feeling that he would spend a lifetime in it, in that embrace that radiated warmth and those blue eyes that were inexplicably flecked with gold—

“No,” Bruce murmured back, and Thor settled further against him, no longer throwing off sparks like a sputtering campfire but still with that residual glowing warmth, and maybe Bruce could blame that for the impulse that happened next— “No, I’m—”

He’d meant it to be a hug.

Just a hug, a chance to hold onto some of that warmth and keep it for as long as he could (because it wouldn’t  _ last _ , of course it wouldn’t), a comforting moment between two teammates that would never be spoken of again, once they returned to towers and quinjets and training and labs.

That was all.

But when Bruce reached up to Thor’s shoulders, meaning to pull him in just that little bit more—and  _ something  _ happened,  _ someone _ slipped, whether accidentally or on purpose, and then Thor’s mouth was on his own and Bruce’s mind whited out.

He found himself returning the kiss before he was even aware of it, his hands sliding higher from Thor’s shoulders to cup the back of his head, and Thor raised his arms to return the favor with the same intensity as their bodies folded around each other and they were both holding and being held at once. 

“Do you mind this? What we’re doing?” The words were a fluttered breath against his mouth.

Bruce almost laughed—he might’ve, if Thor hadn’t been currently— “I should be asking you that question.”

The briefest pause, a drawing-back, and Bruce felt a jolt of  _ oh-no-I-was-wrong-I’m-never-going-to-be-able-to-look-him-in-the-eye-again _ before Thor said in that same low voice, “You are important to me. I would never want to do something that made you uncomfortable.”

“Thor.” And that was all Bruce could say at first, all he could say until he could wrap his brain around the right words. “This is…”  _ this was skin sliding over skin and hands moving and clasping and exposed and sheltered all in one  _ “This is  _ not _ uncomfortable.”

He could feel Thor’s smile a split second before the kiss deepened further, and both of them became too preoccupied to speak for some time. 

Bruce was the one who broke the silence. “ _ Jesus _ , Thor.” He took back every thought he’d ever had about Thor being weary from the battle.

Thor’s hand tangled in his hair. “I think you have to pick one, Banner.”

It was slow, it was teasingly, temptingly slow, and it was another moment before Bruce managed to take in a breath.

“You know, I’m pretty sure you can drop the last name now.”

“Okay.” Thor pressed him with another kiss. “Bruce.”

It was amazing, how he could still shiver while being surrounded by so much warmth.

* * *

It wasn’t a short amount of time later when the door opened, but that didn’t mean they had enough warning.

Bruce froze the moment he heard the bang of reinforced-containment-room-material against more reinforced-containment-room-material, still planted atop of Thor with their legs entangled and breaths mixing together.

His reflexes from being on the run must’ve really dwindled, because the only thing he managed to do before the door opened fully was lift his head away—which really wasn’t a help at all, as it only gave him a clearer view of the miniature crowd gathered in the doorway.

A crowd consisting of all four of the other Avengers and Nick Fury.

Bruce slid away so fast he was surprised he didn’t scrape off a layer of skin, but Thor merely straightened up so that his back was flat against the wall, clearing his throat in a nervous habit that did nothing to improve the situation. Both of them determinedly refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room—each other included.

Finally, Bruce couldn’t stand it any longer. “Uh… hey, guys.”

Oh, dear god, that was not an expression he’d ever wanted to see on Natasha Romanoff’s face.

He wasn’t going to be able to look Steve in the eye for a  _ week _ .

Predictably, Tony was the first one to respond, clapping his hands together in a way that only captured the others’ attention for a moment before their gazes shifted back to Bruce and Thor on the floor. “Well, look on the bright side,” he started, the widest grin Bruce had ever seen spreading across his face. “I’ll bet Asgard/Earth relations are going to be  _ spectacular _ now.”

“That’s enough, Stark,” Fury said, and it was impossible to tell what the director was thinking behind the eye patch, but Bruce had a few good guesses.

“The drugs—” Thor started.

“Wore off half an hour ago,” Fury finished. He gave the two of them an arch look. “We weren’t sure you’d appreciate the interruption.”

From behind the director, Clint made a barely-stifled sound that was an awful lot like a giggle. 

A million thoughts were spinning their way through Bruce’s head—he wanted to evaporate on the spot and he wanted to transform and let Hulk take it from here and he wanted to get on the next jet to India (or possibly Asgard itself, if they would take him) and he wanted to be under the covers in his bed at the Tower only he didn’t want to be alone—and he shifted until he was sitting with an arm braced underneath him, facing everyone as well as he could from below eye level. Thor’s thigh was inches away from the tips of his fingers, if he stretched. 

At last, Bruce turned and looked at Thor, whose mouth quirked in suspected anticipation. “Well… I’m free on Saturday.”

Fury choked.

**Author's Note:**

> [So this is what Chris Hemsworth actually sounds like doing an American accent lol](https://youtu.be/h8yYAMwvh-o)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
